By John Donne.

 Thy sacred Academie above
     Of Doctors, whose paines have undasp'd, and taught
         Both bookes Of life to us (for love
     To know thy Scriptures tells us, we are wrote
                 In thy other booke) pray for us there
                 That what they have misdone
     Or mis-said, wee to that may not adhere;
     Their zeale may be our siniie. Lord let us runiie
     Meane waies, and call them stars, but not the Sunnie.

         And whil'st this universall Quire,
     That Church in triumph, this in warfare here,
         Warm'd with one all-partaking fire
     Of love, that none be lost, which cost thee deare,
                   Prayes ceaslesly,'and thou hearken too,
                   (Since to be gratious
     Our taske is treble, to pray, beare, and doe)
     Heare this prayer Lord: O Lord deliver us
     From trusting in those prayers, though powr'd out thus.

         From being anxious, or secure,
     Dead clods of sadnesse, or light squibs of mirth,
         From thinking, that great courts immure
     All, or no happinesse, or that this earth
                     Is only for our prison fram'd,
                     Or that thou art covetous
     To them thou lovest, or that they are maim'd
     From reaching this worlds sweet, who seek thee thus,
     With all their might, Good Lord deliver us.

         From needing danger, to bee good,
     From owing thee yesterdayes teares to day,
         From trusting so much to thy blood,
     That in that hope, wee wound our soule away,
                   From bribing thee with Almes, to excuse
                   Some sinne more burdenous,
     From light affecting, in religion, newes,
     From thinking us all soule, neglecting thus
     Our mutuall duties Lord deliver us.

         From tempting Satan to tempt us,
     By our connivance, or slack companies
         From measuring ill by vitious,
     Neglecting to choake sins spawne, Vanitie,
                   From indiscreet humilitie,
                   Which might be scandalous,
     And cast reproach on Christianitie,
     From being spies, or to spies pervious,
     From thirst, or scorne of fame, deliver us.
         Deliver us for thy descent
     Into the Virgin, whose wombe was a place
         Of middle kind; and thou being sent
     To'ungratious us, staid'st at her full of grace;
                   And through thy poore birth, where first thou
                       Glorifiedst Povertie,
     And yet soone after riches didst allow,
     By accepting Kings gifts in the Epiphanie,
     Deliver, and make us, to both waies free.

         And through that bitter agonie,
     Which is still the agonie of pious wits,
         Disputing what distorted thee,
     And interrupted evennesse, with fits;
                   And through thy free confession
                   Though thereby they were then
     Made blind, so that thou might'st from them have gone,
     Good Lord deliver us, and teach us when
     Wee may not, and we may blinde unjust men.

         Through thy submitting all, to blowes
     Thy face, thy clothes to spoile; thy fame to scorne,
         All waies, which rage, or justice knowes,
     And by which thou could'st shew, that thou wast born;
                 And through thy gallant humblenesse
                 Which thou in death did'st shew,
     Dying before thy soule they could expresses
     Deliver us from death, by dying so,
     To this world, ere this world doe bid us goe.

         When senses, which thy souldiers are,
     Wee arme against thee, and they fight for sinne,
         When want, sent but to tame, doth warre
     And worke despaire a breach to enter in,
                   When plenty, Gods image, and seale
                   Makes us Idolatrous,
     And love it, not him, whom it should reveale,
     When wee are mov'd to seeme religious
     Only to vent wit, Lord deliver us.

         In Churches, when the'infirmitie
     Of him which speakes, diminishes the Word,
         When Magistrates doe mis-apply
     To us, as we judge, lay or ghostly sword,
                   When plague, which is thine Angell, raignes,
                   Or wars, thy Champions, swaie,
     When Heresie, thy second deluge, gaines;
     In th'houre of death, th'Eve of last judgement day,
     Deliver us from the sinister way.

         Heare us, O heare us Lord; to thee
     A sinner is more musique, when he prayes,
         Than spheares, or Angells praises bee,
     In Panegyrique Allelujaes;
                   Heare us, for till thou heare us, Lord
                   We know not what to say;
     Thine eare to'our sighes, teares, thoughts gives voice and word.
     O Thou who Satan heard'st in jobs sicke day,
     Heare thy selfe now, for thou in us dost pray.
         That wee may change to evennesse
     This intermitting aguish Pietie;
         That snatching cramps of wickednesse
     And Apoplexies of fast sin, may die;
                 That musique of thy promises,
                 Not threats in Thunder may
     Awaken us to our just offices;
     What in thy booke, thou dost, or creatures say,
     That we may heare, Lord heare us, when wee pray.

        That our eares sicknesse wee may cure,
     And rectifie those Labyrinths aright,
         That wee, by harkning, not procure
     Our praise, nor others dispraise so invite,
                   That wee get not a slipperinesse,
                   And senslesly decline,
     From hearing bold wits jeast at Kings excesses
     To'admit the like of majestie divine,
     That we may locke our eares, Lord open thine.

        That living law, the Magistrate,
     Which to give us, and make us physicke, doth
         Our vices often aggravate,
     That Preachers taxing sinne, before her growth,
                 That Satan, and invenom'd men
                 Which well, if we starve, dine,
     When they doe most accuse us, may see then
     Us, to amendment, heare them; thee decline:
     That we may open our eares, Lord lock thine.

        That learning, thine Ambassador,
     From thine allegeance wee never tempt,
         That beauty, paradises flower
     For physicke made, from poyson be exempt,
                   That wit, borne apt high good to doe,
                   By dwelling lazily
     Or Natures nothing, be not nothing too,
     That our affections kill us not, nor dye,
     Heare us, weake ecchoes, O thou eare, and cry.

        Sonne of God heare us, and since thou
     By taking our blood, owest it us againe,
         Gaine to thy self, or us allow;
     And let not both us and thy selfe be slaine;
                         O Lambe of God, which took'st our sinne
                         Which could not stick to thee, O let it not return to us againe,
But patient and Pysician being free,
As sinne is nothing, let it no where be.